Tracer, page 31
Natasha looked down at the knife sticking out of the dirt, then back up at him. She gave a thin smile as she retrieved the switchblade and tucked it into her side pack. ‘I thought I’d left you unarmed.’
‘You should have checked Jonas’s back pockets.’
‘I will miss you, Korso.’
‘I doubt that.’
‘Well, maybe just a little. It’s a shame Yannick left us prematurely. He missed out on the second half of his fee.’
‘Which you would have paid him, of course.’
‘Of course. I pay all my debts, one way or the other. I’m paying one off right now by not killing you. After all, you saved my life in Bilchner.’
‘Twice,’ he said.
She frowned. ‘Twice?’
‘First from Jonas in the church steeple, then again from the C4. According to my balance sheet, you still owe me a life.’
Natasha snorted. ‘You really are unbelievable.’
‘Well, do you honour your debts, or don’t you?’
‘That depends. What else do you want?’
‘Can I assume you can also pilot a chopper, and that you’ll be using Jonas’s, wherever it is, to head back to the city now?’
‘You can assume that, yes.’
‘So how about a lift?’
‘Anything else apart from that.’
‘In that case, how about taking this back with you?’ He reached into his pants pocket and brought out the small thumb drive he’d been carrying with him since Bermuda. He lobbed it underhanded to her.
Natasha caught it in her free hand. ‘What does it contain?’
‘Just a little Trojan malware Dog prepared for me a while back. To any casual observer, it appears to be a simple blank Word document. But send it as an email attachment, and as soon as the recipient opens it up, it grants me immediate and complete access to everything on their operating system. I want you to send it to Sardoca. I need those photos of me permanently deleted, and there’s only one way to guarantee it’s done properly. And preferably while he’s still in the land of the living, for however long that might be.’
‘Not very long is my guess,’ she said, pocketing the drive. ‘But since your goals don’t interfere with mine, I’ll email this attachment to him tomorrow. The rest is up to you.’
‘Good enough.’
She reached down and picked up the caviar tin, then looked over his shoulder. The sun was sinking fast, producing a kaleidoscope of vivid colours that stretched across the sky as stunning purples collided with bright, fiery oranges.
‘So this is where we part ways,’ Natasha said, circling around him until her back was to the sun. ‘You’ll have to find your own way back, Korso, but you’re a born survivor so I have no doubt you’ll make it. And I put that machete back in the hold, so you’re not completely defenceless. Oh, and as for your fee, I will honour that too. One of those crates in there is yours, which I realise comes to slightly less than the twenty-five per cent we agreed upon, but that is life. You’re welcome to take as much as you can carry. Although you’ll have to work fast. In less than twenty-fours, anything left inside that hold will be on its way to Toronto again.’
‘You’re all heart, Natasha.’
She gave him that half-smile again. ‘And I’ll also offer you something else for free, if you want it.’
‘What’s that?’
‘A specific location and a time, ten days from now. Would that be of interest to you?’
He blinked at her. ‘It might be.’
She gave them to him. Then she said, ‘Goodbye, Korso,’ and gave a mock salute as she started backing away, toward that narrow strip of open land in the distance that he’d spotted before. When she’d put enough space between them, she turned and broke into a jog.
Korso watched her until she disappeared from sight, then stepped over to the cargo door entrance. He perched on the door sill and stared at the sunset, marvelling at those amazing colours and wondering just how the hell he was going to reach civilisation again. On foot. In the dark. Without food or water. Through uncharted rainforest.
Miles and miles and miles of it.
It was a problem all right.
He was still wondering when he heard what sounded like a diesel engine approaching from the east.
Fifty-Three
Korso got up and moved away from the three wrecks until he was right out in the open, as visible as possible. In the fading light, he could just make out a pick-up about two hundred feet away, both headlights on full beam, coming from the direction of the original dirt track they’d used to get here. It was heading his way, toward the ATP.
When the headlights finally found Korso, he waved an arm back and forth. He had a good idea who was behind the wheel. The vehicle slowed as it came closer, before coming to a complete stop a few feet away. Korso relaxed when he saw the Toyota badge in the grille. The driver pulled the handbrake, but left the engine idling.
It was one of the most beautiful sounds he’d ever heard.
The door opened and Yannick stepped out, grinning widely.
‘Hey, Jack,’ he said. ‘How are things?’
‘A lot better now you’re here,’ Korso said. ‘It’s good to see you, Yannick.’
Yannick came over to him, and they shook hands. ‘Man, when I saw those four guys with guns, I got the hell away from here and just laid low for a while. When I heard all that gunfire, I knew I’d made the right choice. What happened here, man?’
Korso told him. He kept it brief.
Once he’d finished, Yannick whistled softly. ‘Holy Mary, Mother of God. So your partner was not one of the good guys, after all.’
‘She never was. But at least she kept her word, which puts her a notch above most people I’ve met.’
‘Well, she didn’t keep her word to me. She still owes me money.’
Korso was already walking over to the rear of the pick-up. He inspected the flatbed, mentally sizing it up. It looked big enough, especially with the tailgate down.
He turned back to Yannick, and smiled. ‘I may have a solution to that.’
* * *
At 10:47 the next morning, Yannick pulled into one of the short-stay parking bays outside Cheddi Jagan International Airport’s main terminal, and killed the engine.
After sleeping in the vehicle overnight, they’d started back at the crack of dawn, rationing out the rest of the food and water as they went. The return journey was no less arduous than the previous day’s had been, but each man was a lot more relaxed than when they’d set out. Just for different reasons.
Yannick swivelled round and took another look at the single crate on the flatbed behind them. It had taken a fair amount of effort for two men to lift it, but Korso felt he’d earned it. Part of him wished he could see the look on Natasha’s face when she arrived with transport later today, and noticed one crate missing. A small part, though. He wasn’t all that anxious to see her again so soon.
‘Look, Jack,’ Yannick said, ‘are you sure about this? That caviar back there is worth a lot of money. You sure you don’t want to share the profits?’
‘You keep it,’ Korso said. ‘I already got what I wanted out of all this. Just remember what I told you. Hide the crate somewhere safe, and tell nobody where it is. Not even your wife. Then call the number of that fence I gave you and arrange a meet. And don’t get greedy. That stuff may be worth a million dollars US, but you should be happy if he offers you ten cents on the dollar. Or even five.’
‘Hey, I’ll be more than happy, man. Even fifty thousand is a fortune to me.’
‘That’s the attitude.’
Korso opened his door, got out of the car. He looked over at the terminal building, watching all the luggage-laden people going inside, all headed for destinations unknown. All just like him. Except he was missing the luggage.
Yannick joined him on the sidewalk. He held out his hand. ‘Thanks, man. For everything.’
Korso shook it. ‘Good luck.’
‘Likewise. So where next for you?’
‘I’m kind of curious about that myself.’
Epilogue
‘Mr Smith must have had a particularly bad week,’ the first host said, sotto voce. ‘He’s in an even worse mood than usual tonight. Practically bit my head off when I dropped a napkin as I was serving him.’
His colleague whispered back, ‘Feel sorry for whichever poor hostess he ends up taking upstairs with him later. She’ll get the worst of it.’
‘You got that right. Christ, why can’t they all be like Mr Brown? Nothing ever fazes that man, and he always leaves a mammoth tip.’
‘Or Mr Williams. I heard rumours he’s some kind of major arms dealer, but you’d never know it. He’s always telling me dirty jokes. The hostesses can’t get enough of him.’
The two young men, each dressed in identical tuxedos, were carefully arranging some hors d’oeuvres on a marble counter in the sleek, ultra-modern kitchen of the private club’s second floor. Set in a large, three-storey townhouse at the end of a quiet cul-de-sac in one of the most expensive sections of Mayfair, the club itself had no name, and was so exclusive most people didn’t even know it existed. Its membership was extremely limited. One could only join by recommendation, and still there was no guarantee you’d be accepted. Even some billionaires had been unable to gain entry. And definitely no actors. It was said that the annual membership fee was somewhere in the low six figures, but few knew for sure, and they weren’t telling. The benefits, though, were something to behold.
The club’s Michelin-star chef was currently on a smoke break, and the only other person in the kitchen was another host. Older than the first two, with greying hair and a slight paunch, he was there covering for a host who’d fallen sick two days previously. He had been verified by two other club members, which meant his reputation, and more importantly his discretion, was above reproach. He also wore a tuxedo and the standard white cotton gloves. Bent over another marble counter fifteen feet away from his colleagues, pretending not to listen, he finished positioning the cigars in the oak humidor so they were all perfectly aligned.
Appearance mattered a great deal here. In truth, it was everything.
The host gently closed the lid and polished the oak surface with a cotton cloth, picking up the temperature-controlled humidor in both hands. Without speaking to the other two, he left the kitchen and carefully made his way down the long, plushly carpeted corridor until he finally reached a set of double doors. He used an elbow and shoulder to push through, so the contents of the humidor wouldn’t be disturbed, and entered the room.
The bar and lounge area was the very epitome of elegance and good taste, and took up over half of the second floor. Delicate lighting effects gave the room a velvety ambience, while glass panels and intricately placed mirrors made the room seem twice as large. Unobtrusive chillout music seeped out of the state-of-the-art sound system. The fourteen members currently in residence were all seated away from each other, eating and drinking and smoking as they enjoyed the company of the three-dozen hostesses scattered about the room. Each hostess was not only stunningly beautiful, but highly educated. And any one of them was available to a member if he so desired. Or even more than one.
The grey-haired host made his way past the exclusive clientele, never making eye contact with anyone, until he reached the sunken level in the centre of the room where there were four more tables, all occupied. He approached a man sitting at one of them drinking champagne with two gorgeous hostesses: a brunette on one side, a redhead on the other. Their hands were all over him. The man didn’t look drunk, but he looked as though he might be soon. There were still a few remnants of white powder on the glass table.
The member took his attention away from the redhead he was canoodling, and aimed his dark gaze at the host as he approached the table. ‘What do you want? I’m busy.’
‘My sincere apologies for intruding, Mr Smith,’ the host said. ‘However, my employer and the owner of this establishment asked that I come and offer you a cigar from his own personal supply, as he places you in high regard and wishes to show his respect.’
The member’s gaze softened a little. ‘He does, huh?’
‘Yes, sir.’ The host opened the lid and showed him the humidor’s contents. ‘Rare vintage Arturo Fuente Opus X BBMF cigars, made from the finest Dominican tobacco. They don’t come any better. Please, make your choice, sir.’
The redhead whispered something in the man’s ear and gave a coquettish giggle. Ignoring her, he sat up and slowly moved his fingers down the row of cigars, before finally picking one. The host gently took it from him, removed a guillotine cigar cutter from his waistcoat pocket, and precisely snipped the cigar just inside the cap. He handed the cigar back, removed a box of matches from the same pocket and lit one. Placing the cigar between his lips, the man leaned forward and drew on the tobacco while the host moved the match around the tip to ensure it evened out perfectly.
‘Mr Smith’ sat back and let out a plume of smoke, nodding his head in appreciation. ‘Nice. Very nice indeed.’ He frowned at the host. ‘I don’t know you, do I?’
‘I’m new, sir. Here on temporary assignment, covering for a sick colleague.’
‘Make sure you thank your boss for me.’
‘I will, sir. Please, enjoy the rest of your evening.’
‘That I guarantee.’
The host turned and exited the room as unobtrusively as he’d entered. Still clasping the humidor, he found the fire stairs, descended to the ground floor and soon after, left the building via the side fire exit. He walked down the narrow alleyway and keyed in the code for the gate at the end. Stepping through, he shut the gate behind him, and walked a hundred feet until he reached his rental car. He’d parked on a double yellow line, but there were no traffic wardens about at one in the morning. He unlocked the vehicle and got in.
Korso placed the humidor inside the travel bag on the passenger seat and zipped it closed. Only then did he take off his gloves. After that he removed the expensive hairpiece and the latex and makeup that had helped add twenty years to his appearance, along with the fat pad under his tuxedo.
He waited.
Forty-seven minutes later, a private ambulance entered the quiet street and crawled past him toward the townhouse he’d left. No flashing lights and no siren, which told Korso everything he needed to know. A guard met the two paramedics at the side entrance and they followed him inside. Ten minutes later, they came out pushing a stretcher bearing a covered body, which they pushed into the rear of the ambulance.
It wouldn’t have mattered which cigar Sardoca had picked. They were all coated with the same poison Korso had used on Gancharov months before. He’d also exposed the cigars to the air for five hours before Sardoca picked his final smoke, so that the toxin would have completely dissipated shortly after, ensuring no collateral damage to innocent bystanders.
Since members had to book two weeks ahead any time they planned to stay at the club, Natasha had known exactly where Sardoca would be on what day and at what time. Korso had been more than willing to do his part. After Dog hacked into the club’s membership list and faked two references, Korso made sure one of the hosts fell sick two days before. The rest, while not easy, had been fairly straightforward.
Five days before, he’d deleted every photo of him in Sardoca’s iCloud account, and checked the rest of his operating system to make sure there were no other copies. There weren’t. He knew the photos still existed somewhere, since somebody other than Sardoca had taken the shots, but without context, they meant nothing. And other than Sardoca, nobody else had it in for him, or even knew who he was. So with this final task out of the way, he felt he’d finally drawn a line under a part of his past he wanted to forget.
He nodded to himself, satisfied.
A single turn of the ignition key and the engine purred into life. Without looking back, the dead man put the car into gear, and drove off into the night.
Acknowledgements
Thanks goes to my splendid editor, Kit Nevile, for staying on top of things from start to finish, and for being right more often than not. Also, gracias to Gregory Vasquez for the Spanish lessons.
About the Author
Jason Dean spent much of his professional life as a graphic designer before deciding what he really wanted to do was write the kind of international thrillers he’s always loved reading. The James Bishop series was the result. He is now working on the next book in the Korso series. Jason lives in the Far East with his wife and their dog.
First published in the United Kingdom in 2021 by Canelo
Canelo Digital Publishing Limited
31 Helen Road
Oxford OX2 0DF
United Kingdom
Copyright © Jason Dean, 2021
The moral right of Jason Dean to be identified as the creator of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Ebook ISBN 9781800324060
Print ISBN 9781800324077
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Look for more great books at www.canelo.co
Jason Dean, Tracer
